Leaving Town Alive
by Blue van Meer
Summary: Santana and Brittany grow up.
1. A Beginning of Sorts

**A Beginning of Sorts**

Brittany's earliest memory is of Santana.

They're in kindergarten and Brittany has finally got a turn on the swing. She's being pushed by her teacher, Marianne, and she's screaming to go higher and higher and laughing so hard she can't see straight.

(It doesn't cross her mind that she wouldn't be able to see straight anyway – she's on _a swing_.)

Suddenly the pair of hands at the small of her back disappear and she's left hanging, an aeroplane with engines at full blast and nowhere to take off. Her shouts begging to be sent flying fade away and are replaced by the shrill cry of a girl with red hair and pigtails and blood pouring from her knee.

(Brittany doesn't like seeing people sad.)

Marianne is stooping down to look at the wound, murmuring softly to the girl as she takes her hand and helps her up, lifting her hair from her forehead and kissing her gently. Brittany watches them go inside and wants to cry.

"My turn now."

The voice comes slightly from her right and she turns to look, still swinging back and forth. A girl is standing there, tan with big eyes staring at her unblinkingly. They narrow when Brittany doesn't answer.

(Brittany's too busy watching the way the light bounces off her black ponytail and wishing that hers did the same.)

"I _said,_ get off the swing. You've been on long enough already!"

This confuses Brittany.

"You get to swing for an entire playtime," she answers slowly, "and playtime isn't over yet. It's the _rules_."

The girl rolls her eyes impatiently and Brittany watches her in awe. She didn't know eyes could do that.

"I know that, but it's still my turn."

"Why?"

The girl just stares. Brittany waits for her to answer. When nothing comes out of her mouth, she asks again. The girl sighs, looking annoyed.

"Look, Marianne left, ok? She went inside so there's no one to push you, which means you can't swing. You're just sitting there and wasting space. It's _my turn._"

Brittany's head is starting to hurt. This girl is being really rude.

"But if Marianne isn't here, she can't push you, either. It doesn't make sense!"

Brittany pleads with her eyes for the girl to leave her alone. Instead, she grins triumphantly.

"I can swing _on my own._"

Brittany is shocked. So shocked that she slides off the swing and grabs hold of the chain, holding it out to the girl with the big brown eyes.

Those eyes light up and it makes Brittany want to smile, so she does.

The girl strides over, still grinning but it's somehow softer and doesn't make her head hurt. To Brittany's surprise, she sticks out her hand and looks at her expectantly. Brittany regards it warily, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Finally, the girl sighs.

"You're supposed to shake it, silly _chica_. It means hello, nice to meet you."

Brittany takes it, letting the swing drop, her fingers applying next to no pressure. The girl squeezes her palm hard and pumps her arm up and down vigorously.

"I'm Santana. And you are?"

"Brittany S. Pierce, nice to meet you," she says automatically, just the way her mother taught her to whenever she was introduced to her grown-up friends. Santana lets go and jumps onto the swing, legs kicking out ferociously in an attempt to get higher immediately. Brittany watches her in silence.

(Her new hero)

After a while, Santana notices her gaze and grins at her. A few strands have come loose from her ponytail.

"We're friends now, ok?"

Brittany nods, completely awestruck. They remain there in companionable silence, Brittany watching her new friend soar further and further out of her reach, crowing in delight.

Marianne sticks her head out of the door, calling for all the children to come inside; it was time for arts & crafts. Santana jumps off the swing gracefully, not even wobbling, and grabs Brittany's hand, tugging her after her. Brittany tries very hard to keep up.

"Come on, faster, _chica!_"

"What does that even mean?" Brittany asks as they tumble through the door. Santana frowns.

(Brittany doesn't like it when she frowns.)

"I don't know. My mum always calls me _chica_ when she's pleased with me." She fixes Brittany with sharp eyes. "I only call people _chica_ when I like them."

She doesn't look like a hero any more. Her eyes aren't as sure as they were. Brittany hugs her on an impulse and everything's ok, she's smiling but not with sharp edges, all soft like when she shook her hand. She smells of sunshine. Marianne calls them over and they hang their coats up quickly and neither of them can stop grinning.


	2. Painted it Red

**Painted it Red**

It's the evening before Brittany's first day at school and she can't sleep.

Her mom is downstairs. She can hear her in the kitchen, banging the pots and pans together as she clears up. It's loud and distracting and is keeping Brittany awake.

(Then again, the sound of her own breath is keeping her awake. She can't win.)

It's too dark to tell what the hands on her clock are saying, but she doubts she could tell what time it was even if she could see.

(No one has ever taught her how.)

It's late, she knows that much.

She wonders if Santana's awake as well, but her mom has banned her from the phone from the time she accidentally made a seven hour phone call to somewhere in Europe. The buttons made funny noises when she pressed them and then there was this weird whirring sound and someone started talking. She thought it was like the radio they had next to the sink, except she couldn't understand a word they were saying. She got bored and went to her room to play, leaving the phone off the hook.

Her mom said afterwards that she called a bank in Switzerland and they put her on hold for seven hours. She said if she wasn't mad she would find it really ironic.

(Brittany didn't see what irons had to do with anything.)

Now she knows how a phone works and what it's for, but she's not allowed to use it. Why didn't her mom just ban her from the phone until she explained what it was for? Not the other way round. If she'd known she would've only ever called Santana. Or maybe her dad when he was having one of his weeks where he lived at work. She tried explaining this to her mom but she just shook her head and told her that that wasn't the point and could she please stop asking silly questions, she had a really bad headache.

Adults don't make any sense.

And now she's lying in the dark, nervous and unable to sleep and wishing she could talk to her best friend but she wasn't allowed and if her daddy was home he would let her. He'd promised he would drive her to school in the morning but she wants him there _now._

She turns on her bedside lamp shaped like a rabbit and decides to practice the handstand. She learnt it at the gymnastic class her mom takes her to whenever she gets her nails done, which is about once a week. She climbs out of bed and turns to face the wall. It's painted red by the decorator her daddy hired last year to do the room.

(She wanted blue. She just didn't want to say anything because her daddy was being nice.)

She lifts her hands up over her head and takes a deep breath.

("You cannot allow yourself to be scared of hitting the wall, Brittany," the scary woman with the bright red hair had said. "If anything, the wall should be scared of you. Swing at it like you mean it, honey.")

She points her toe and lifts her left leg, rocking backwards, concentrating hard. She thinks of her mom, who claps if she arrives early to pick her up from gymnastics but won't hug her because her nails need to settle in. She thinks of her daddy, of how proud he would be if he could see her. She thinks of Santana and wonders if she can do this as well.

She hopes so. You share everything with your best friends.

With one swift movement, she pushes forwards. Her hands hit the floor and she feels a moment of elation as her feet lift over her head.

Then it all goes wrong.

She's used too much force, too much. Her heels hit the soft plaster hard and it gives way slightly and it _stings_. The pain makes her gasp and her arms give way, the joint in her elbow cracking painfully.

All of a sudden, the floor meets her head, hard, and she collapses around it, ungainly limbs everywhere. Her ears are ringing and her feet hurt and _she_ hurts. From plaster that wasn't supposed to give way and her hard floor and her bruised, childish pride. She fights back the tears but it's no use. They escape from her closed eyelids, out of the tiny gaps between her eyelashes, and run into her mouth. She can feel her nose running. She gets up and looks at herself in the mirror.

It's not pretty.

She's pale and her watery blue eyes are rimmed with red. She doesn't understand how tears can stain her cheeks but they do. Looking away, she thinks about going to her mom. Maybe she would hug her, make it better like they do in movies. The way Santana's mom does when she picks her up from Kindergarten.

(Kindergarten. A place for little kids. That was a long time ago.)

And then she notices _the wall._

(Nononononononono)

(Her daddy's going to be so angry)

The red paint has cracked, showing the crumbly brown plaster beneath. Chips of it are scattered on the floor. They look like dried blood. The mark where she hit the wall with her heels stares at her, unblinking, like a red eye. Watching her.

Only monsters have red eyes.

Never once taking her eyes off it, she backs away.

(If she doesn't blink, it won't move)

The backs of her knees hit the bed and she clambers back in. She reaches behind her for her pillow and hugs it to her, ignoring the pain in her heels, her head, her chest. The mark on the wall pales into insignificance next to her mom's imagined wrath. Her face gets all red and she _swells up_ like that bullfrog she saw on the Discovery Channel.

Then she shouts and Brittany feels like her head is going to explode from the _shame_.

Hopefully her daddy won't shout as loud.

(She doesn't know. He's never shouted at her before.)

(She imagines his disappointment will be a thousand times worse.)

She lies back, sniffing, the dried tears on her cheeks turning her face into a mask. She's still clutching the pillow and her mattress feels weird without it. Harder. It makes her neck hurt. She curls into a ball on her side and decides she deserves it.

She closes her eyes and waits for morning to come.

_Took something perfect and painted it red._

**AN: The title and the quote at the end are from the song 'Red' by Daniel Merriweather.**

**It's been rather Brittany-centric so far, but I promise the next chapter will be dedicated entirely to Santana, just like this one has been entirely about Brittany.**

**Don't worry, they will get to school eventually.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**


	3. The Dark is too Hard to Beat

**The Dark is too Hard to Beat**

It's the evening before Santana's first day at school and her older brothers have snuck into her room and are attempting to scare her witless.

(Attempting being the operative word.)

(Nothing scares her.)

(Her brothers still like trying.)

Rafael, her ten year old brother, the Goliath to her David, is sitting cross-legged on her bedspread, grinning wickedly. He looks almost demonic in the half light.

(A cross between boy and gremlin.)

Al, the middle child, is sat in the shadows that pool in the corner of her tiny, cramped room. He is hugging his legs to his chest and slowly rocking himself back and forth, a habit he's had since forever. He squints up at Rafael.

(He refuses to get glasses. He's stubborn like that.)

Santana has managed to fit herself into her old rocking chair that her Grandpa made her before he died. It's the perfect size for three year old Santana, all big eyes and small limbs and hair that's almost reaching her shoulders. It's a squeeze for a six year old.

('To remind you that no matter how old you get, you could once fit into this with ease,' Pa had said when it was finished, his brown eyes smiling at her from way, way up high. He died before she could understand what he meant.)

Rafael is recounting the tale of his first grade experience, complete with sound effects and occasional theatrical reenactment, with Al playing any person he decided was important to the story.

As far as she could tell, first grade was war.

'…and on the first day, everyone is taken into the main hall and gets sorted into groups.' He makes Al stand up to be 'sorted'. Santana thinks Rafael has been reading too much Harry Potter.

He clears his throat.

'Alfonso Michael Lopez, to the front,' he says, deepening his voice in an attempt to sound older.

'What _are_ you doing?' Santana asks, wrinkling her nose.

"I'm pretending to be the principal!' Rafael cries indignantly. 'I'm trying to help you visualize-' he wafts his arms around, trying to encompass his imagined hall –'your first day at McKinley Elementary! You should be thanking me for preparing you for what's to come!'

'Hm.'

'_Anyway_,' he says, glaring at her before turning to Al, 'Alfonso Michael Lopez-'

'Stop _calling _me that,' Al mutters, shifting his weight to his left leg and staring at the floor grumpily. 'My name is _Al_. My birth certificate just got it wrong.'

'_Would you people stop interrupting?'_ Rafael hisses. Santana can see spit flying from his mouth and narrows her eyes.

'You spat.'

'_So what?'_

'What do you _mean_, so what? This is my room! I don't want it infected by some stupid boy disease!'

Al snorts. Santana has almost had it. She's tired and she wishes Brittany was here instead and they could play 'Spies' with the two Barbies she's somehow collected over the years without really meaning to. She fixes her sharp gaze on Al and he flinches involuntarily.

'I bet you got _snot_ on the floor, moron. Could you try controlling yourself?'

'Sorr-_y_,' he mutters petulantly, still staring at the floor.

'Say it like you mean it, wimp.'

'_Santana!_ Would you _stop insulting Al_ and just _pay attention!'_

Santana raises her chin and looks at him defiantly, but settles back into the rocking chair and watches him from the darkness.

'As I was _saying_.' Rafael lets out an enormous sigh, annoyed. 'Alfonso – oh, _alright_ – Al Michael Lopez – that sounds stupid, by the way – to the front, _if you please_.'

Al shuffles to the foot of the bed.

Rafael consults with invisible advisors, looking at Al appraisingly, occasionally pointing.

'We're not on Broadway, Rafi,' Al whines. 'Hurry up already.'

Rafi glares at him but complies.

'It appears, Mr. Lopez, that you are best suited-' he coughs, remembering his gravelly voice '-to this group on the far right, called the Nerds.'

'Hey! This isn't what we-'

'Be quiet, Al.' He turns to Santana, who has her eyebrows raised skeptically.

(How stupid do they think she is?)

She says the same to Rafael (adding 'you losers' for good measure) and he shakes his head vehemently.

'It's true, I swear! Isn't it, Al?'

'That depends. Can I be in the Superheroes-In-Training group?'

'Sure, fine, whatever. See?'

Santana can't help but snort derisively.

'Now _you_ got snot on the floor,' Al says, grinning, his annoyance forgotten. He catches her eye and suddenly neither of them can stop laughing. Al makes a noise like a pig and she stops, staring at him disbelievingly, and then they both start howling, closely followed by Rafael who is lying flat on the bed, body shaking.

'You – sounded – like-' Rafael gasps, barely able to breathe. Al collapses onto the floor, his legs unable to withstand the onslaught of giggles. Santana is dangerously close to tipping off the rocking chair.

(This feels good.)

(They haven't laughed this much since forever.)

Suddenly the door opens and her chair tips backwards violently, hitting her bedside table and knocking her lamp to the floor. It smashes.

Her mom is standing in the doorway, surveying the scene with apparent calm. Her mouth twitches but she says nothing, just watches them with something akin to disbelief in her eyes.

A small whimper escapes from Al and they're all off again, a train without brakes rushing down a hill at full speed. Santana tries to stop, tries to save herself from an enormous telling-off, but she just can't help it. She closes her eyes, still laughing, and waits for her mom to start bellowing.

Instead, something cool and hard is pressed into her hand and she opens her eyes in surprise, laughter dying in her throat.

She's holding a phone.

She looks at her mom. Her mom looks at her, exasperation etched into the lines of her face.

'It's for you. You're lucky I'm not making you clear this mess up, silly girl.'

(It's ok. Her mom would be yelling by now if she was really mad.)

(Wait – what? For her?)

Her mom sighs.

'Just talk to your friend, hm? I'll clear this up. This is _never happening again, _understand?'

Santana nods. As her mom bustles out of the room, yelling at her brothers to follow, she lifts the phone to her ear.

'H-Hello?'

A moment of silence. Then:

'Sanny?'

Santana smiles. 'Brit?'

'Yeah?'

'Hi.'

'Hi.'

More silence. Santana fidgets uncomfortably, eyeing the shards of glass scattered on her brown carpet. She will pay for this later, she knows that much.

'Why are you calling?'

Santana can hear Brittany breathing. It tickles her ear.

'I can't sleep and I accidentally broke a wall.'

'You ca- wait, what? A _wall_? Are you serious?'

'Yes. I don't know how to joke about things like that.'

She sounds so deadly serious that Santana believes her.

'Wow.'

'I know.'

More silence. Then:

'I broke a lamp.'

Brittany doesn't say anything.

'Brit? You still there?'

'Did you hurt yourself?'

(What a strange question.)

'Course not, silly _chica_. I never hurt myself. Not ever.'

'Oh, ok. That's good.'

Then –

'How did you break the lamp?'

"I laughed too hard.'

Brittany giggles.

'How did you break the wall?'

'Did a handstand. Daddy came into my room because he came home early and I was so upset about the wall that he let me call you.'

'A handstand? I can do that as well.'

(Or she will as soon as she can find the time to learn.)

'Cool. Wait, why are you even awake? Isn't it really late?'

Santana frowns. 'No, it's half seven. I get ready for bed now.'

'That you do.' Her mom has come back in with the dustpan and brush and inclines her forehead at the phone. 'Finish now. Time for bed.'

'I have to go now.'

'I know, I heard. Bye. See you at school.'

'Yeah. School. See you tomorrow.'

But Brittany has already gone, leaving only a beeping in her wake.

**AN: Well, that was definitely a lot of Santana. And, well, her brothers, who are figments of my imagination and do not exist, at least not to my knowledge.**

**Thanks for favouriting and putting this on Story Alert, it means a lot.**

**Don't hesitate to correct me if it sounds like Brit-Speak. I have next to no knowledge of the American school system either (thank you, Wikipedia, for what I do know) so seriously. No hesitating.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except maybe Al and Rafael and the thoughts in my head, and even that's doubtful.**


	4. In Your Lunchbox Days

_Story starts after this author's note:_

_As I mentioned earlier, I have no idea what the American school system is like. Wikipedia only helps with things like age etc., which only gets me so far. This means that I'm basing first grade on my own (English) experience of Year R/ Year 1._

_Just so you know. Enjoy. B.v.M x_

* * *

><p><strong>In Your Lunchbox Days<strong>

[S A N T A N A]

First grade is full of stupid kids.

(Except Brittany. Brittany doesn't count as other kids – she's just, well, Brittany.)

When she arrives, she's reluctantly gripping her mom's hand as she leads her into the classroom. It's bright and yellow, with pictures on the wall of smiley faces and happy children. There are a lot of _things_ in the room. Santana takes them in, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

(The very picture of skepticism.)

A worn guitar is propped up in the corner, ready to be whipped out at any moment in case they decide to burst into song spontaneously.

(Santana's not stupid – she knows that that kind of thing doesn't happen in real life.)

Tables are dotted around the room, fern plants at their centre. Her mom tuts as they watch a sandy haired boy attempt to eat the soil from one of the terracotta pots. In the corner is a blue sofa, surrounded by bean bags, and bookshelves adorned with more happy, smiling children – this time grinning at her from the covers of glossy picture books.

Near the glass door that leads to the playground is a pretend kitchen, complete with wooden food and a plastic fridge. Two of the kids have figured out how to take out the sink from the top of the wooden washing machine, and are climbing in the hole in the top and out the round door at the bottom. Here Santana spies Brittany, who is happily pretending to chop up a wooden banana on one of the worktops.

Santana lets go of her mom's hand and flies across the room to her best friend.

'Hey,' she says breathlessly.

Brittany looks up at her and smiles, blue eyes lighting up.

'Hi,' she beams. 'This isn't so bad, is it?'

Santana wrinkles her nose.

'I saw someone _eating soil_. It was disgusting.'

Brittany frowns. 'You're not supposed to do that? I thought they were there to snack on if you got bored.'

'No one would starve if you could eat soil, Brittany honey. Sadly, it doesn't do us any good at all,' Santana's mom says from behind her. She turns around and looks up at her mom. She has her hair pinned up with a pencil, her work glasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She smells of shower.

'Santana, I need to go now. Alejandra called while we were in the car and apparently there's a bit of an emergency at work – the cheese puffs that we need for the wedding reception this evening decided to explode in the oven last night. I'm going to have to love you and leave you, _chica_.'

Brittany is watching her mom with a weird expression on her face.

'Bye, mommy,' Santana says, reaching up for a hug. Her mom crouches down and encircles her with her arms, pulling her in.

'Have a great day, sweetie,' she says, voice muffled by Santana's shoulder. Santana squeezes her tight then reluctantly lets go, suddenly scared of being left alone.

'Bye, Mrs. Lopez,' Brittany says, still watching her. Her mom smiles down at her. She almost looks sad.

'Bye, Brittany honey. Has your mommy left already?'

Brittany shakes her head. 'Daddy brought me to school but he had to drop me in the parking lot. He needed to go to work and be important.'

'Oh, sweetheart. If it makes you feel better, Mrs. Simpson is a lovely teacher, ok? If you feel sad or if you need anything, just ask her. I really have to dash.'

She starts walking away, pulling her phone out of her pocket as she leaves.

'Stay out of trouble, Santana! You're still on a warning for the lamp!'

[B R I T T A N Y]

It's not that she doesn't love her daddy.

She just wishes he would hug her more.

[S A N T A N A]

'Settle down, class! James, _please _take the book out of your mouth, that's not what it's for- Yes, I know, but just because it has pictures of food in it doesn't make it edible…'

(Santana repeats – first grade is full of stupid kids.)

'…and all gather round in a circle in front of my chair. No, that's not a circle, that looks more like an egg. Come on, scoot backwards a bit over there. Can everybody see me?'

Murmured assent.

'Good. Now we can start!' Mrs. Simpson claps her hands together, looking positively thrilled. Even her hair looks happy, all shiny and bouncy and blonde. She definitely decorated the room herself.

'So, class, this is our first day and we are going to be spending a _lot_ of time together over the next year, hm? So today we're going to be getting to know each other a bit.' She smiles down at them. Santana didn't know anyone could be this happy.

(It makes her head hurt a bit.)

'Here,'- she waves a blue folder at them– 'is a list with all your names on it. Every day, I'll call out your names before we start, and when you hear your name, you say 'here.' Nice and clear now, so that everyone can hear, hm?'

She smoothes down her skirt, eyeing the pattern lovingly.

(Oh no.)

(Santana has a _girly-girl_ for a teacher.)

(Her mom didn't warn her about this.)

'…today we're going to be doing it a bit differently than we will for the rest of the year, hm? When I call out your name, you stand up so that everyone can see you, and tell the rest of the class something special about you.'

A girl on the other side of the circle squirms excitedly, looking ready to burst.

'So… first up is Rachel Berry!'

The squirming girl shoots up, words tumbling out of her mouth as soon as she's left the ground.

'I'm Rachel Berry and I'm special because I have two daddies who love me very, very much and I can sing and dance really well and I've won tons of competitions because I'm a star and I'm going to be on stage one day just like Barbara Streisand because she's my idol…'

(Santana won't stand for this.)

'She said one thing that makes you special, stupid.'

The girl's mouth falls open in shock and she deflates, dropping to the ground, no air left in her to keep her up. Well, it's about time she shut up.

The teacher is frowning at her.

(She still somehow manages to look happy.)

'Now, I don't know who taught you manners, missy, but you do not interrupt when other people are talking. You _listen_.' She points to her ear - like Santana's stupid and doesn't know what she meant. 'Now, apologize to Rachel and we'll continue, hm?'

'Sorr-_y_, Rachel,' she says, channeling Al. She hasn't done anything wrong.

(But the teacher seems to think so, and she doesn't want her mom to be mad at her.)

'Good. Now, Amy Binns!'

As a little dark haired girl stands up, Brittany leans over and whispers in her ear, all hot breath and tickling hair.

'Why did you do that, Sanny? She's upset now.'

(Santana doesn't look. She doesn't.)

'So what? She wasn't doing it right and I didn't want to listen to her any more.'

Brittany's looking really confused.

'But…'

Santana sighs and leans over to whisper fiercely in her ear.

'Look, sometimes people are just annoying, ok? Sometimes you just have to tell them to be quiet so that they _know_ that they're annoying and they stop doing it. That girl has a _really big head_ and she needed to _be quiet_. So I told her so.'

Brittany cranes her neck to look at the girl.

'Her head looks normal size to me…'

'Santana Lopez!'

Santana's head snaps up. Sighing, she stands up and tries to ignore everyone staring at her, instead fixing her sharp eyes on Mrs. Simpson.

'I'm Santana Lopez and I can speak Spanish.'

A few murmurs. The teacher nods at her, disapproval still staining her eyes. Santana feels a hard knot clench in the pit of her stomach and she sits down heavily. She feels like she's made of lead.

'What's Spanish?' Brittany whispers.

'It's like English for Spanish people,' she mutters grumpily, then ignores her and bores holes into the carpet with her eyes.

Brittany doesn't try to speak to her again.

Like she said, Brittany's not stupid.

[B R I T T A N Y]

'Brittany Pierce!'

She stands up, feeling a bit lost. She wants Santana to look at her, but she's giving off the same waves her mom does when she has one of her headaches.

(Things Brittany Knows #1: Never talk to people in Headache Mood.)

'I'm Brittany Pierce,' she says, then blanks.

What was she supposed to say again?

(Everyone's watching her. It feels all heavy on her skin.)

The teacher smiles encouragingly. She thinks.

(The teacher smiles so much she doesn't know what it means most of the time.)

'I'm Brittany Pierce,' she tries again. This time Santana looks up from her interesting bit of carpet and just stares at her. She doesn't look mad.

Just empty.

Brittany wants to fill her up again.

'I'm Brittany Pierce,' she says for the last time, 'and I'm Santana's best friend in the whole wide world, pinkie promise, forever and ever, cross my heart and hope to die.'

Santana's still staring.

But there's a smile somewhere behind her eyes, maybe even in the middle of her head, and that's enough for her.

She sits down, grinning.

Silence.

Then Mrs. Simpson calls out the next name and what she said doesn't matter any more.

(People forget really quickly, don't they? When something more interesting comes along.)

'That was…'

She can feel Santana searching for words. Brittany wants to help but she doesn't know many.

'Nice?'

She offers it to Santana. Hopes she'll take it.

Santana smiles then, one of the soft ones. 'Yeah. Thank you.'

'I pinkie promised. That means for life.'

Santana nods slowly, watching her hands make patterns in the carpet.

'I know.'

Then-

'Me too. All the things you said.'

'I know.'

Santana looks at her sideways, her smile lopsided.

'You know a lot.'

Not a question. A statement. Brittany shakes her head.

'No. I just know you.'

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Next chapter is going to be a bit further into the future, not quite sure by how much. <strong>

**Anyway, I'm not really that happy with this chapter – I just wanted to get it out there so I could move on with the story. Feedback is greatly appreciated (just not flaming 'cause that's idiotic and really not constructive at all).**

**Thanks to everyone who favourited and put this on story alert. I know I said this last chapter but it really means a lot, it makes me want to update faster. You know who you are!**

**As mentioned, reviews are greatly appreciated ;)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did, why the hell would I be writing this? **


	5. Love Me When You Can  Part I

**Love ****Me ****When ****You ****Can**** – ****Part ****I**

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><p><em>Strange <em>_hands __taking __my __wrist __again._

_Somehow __I'm __still __alone._

* * *

><p>Brittany wakes up with a start, jerking upright.<p>

(Did somebody just yell in her ear?)

It's early in the morning, still dark and cold outside – she can see the frost on the grass in her yard. It's almost glowing in the moonlight. Weird.

She flops back down onto her bed, groaning. Her blood just caught up with her head and it's clouding her vision, making her ears ring. A kind of black fog fills her head and she feels dizzy.

Disorientated.

She concentrates on breathing. Tries to remember _why__on__earth_ her body decided to wake her up so suddenly.

Then it hits her.

Today is her _birthday_.

Saturday, the 10th December. The day she turns eleven.

(She's catching Santana up.)

She leaps out of bed, annoyance at the early start forgotten. Her dressing gown is hanging up on a peg next to her door and she grabs it, tugs it on. Doesn't bother to figure out how to tie it up.

(Her mom always shows her how but then she learns new things at school and forgets.)

She bounds down the hallway, flicking on every light switch she can reach. The excitement, it's unstoppable. It's bursting out of her mouth and eyes and chest and hands and all the other parts of her she can feel but can't name.

This feeling must come from being eleven. She _knew_ she was missing out.

'Mom! Daddy! Wake up, come _on_, it's my birthday!'

Words continue to tumble out of her mouth. She can't control it. She just wants her parents to hug her and sing happy birthday to her and maybe even give her _presents_.

(She got presents last year, but you can never be certain. The year before last, her daddy was away and her mommy came into the kitchen, looked at the calendar and said some words Brittany didn't understand. She thinks they meant bad things.)

(She didn't get presents until the weekend after.)

Further down the hallway, a door creaks open.

'Brittany?'

Her mom's voice sounds all dry, like in the morning before she's had her giant cup of coffee. Brittany runs over to her and engulfs her in a hug, propelling them both backwards.

'Mommy!' she says, her voice muffled by her mom's nightie.

Hands push at her shoulders and she steps back, confused. Her mom's eyes are screwed up against the light in the hallway and her hair is a mess. It looks like straw. Her makeup is smeared all over her face, pink lipstick around her mouth, black spiders on her cheeks.

She smells like the sherry cabinet.

'Brittany,' her mom says again, wincing at the sound of her own voice. 'Do you know what time it is?'

Brittany hates it when her mom's like this.

(Things Brittany Knows #2: Mommy is not a morning person.)

(But it's her _birthday_.)

'It's my birthday,' she says out loud.

'It's _6:30__in__the__morning_, that's what it is.'

Her mom is doing that thing where she doesn't listen.

'I don't care if the President is coming to visit, you do _not_ come bounding down the stairs like some sort of elephant, especially not at ridiculous times like this!'

(Brittany doesn't feel so excited anymore.)

'But –'

'But _nothing_. Look, go back to bed. Try to get some sleep. Mommy won't be down until the afternoon – she needs to rest, she has a very bad headache, ok?'

(Why does she talk about herself in the third person? She's _standing__right__there._)

'But mommy, Santana and Freya and Naomi and Gemma are coming over at 10:30. You _said_ you'd take us ice-skating for my party. You _promised_.'

Brittany's starting to tremble. Why does this always happen?

Her mom says those bad words again.

'Look, honey, I'm sorry. But there is _no__way_ I can drive you and four other loud, hyperactive girls into Lima. I'm just not up to it.'

She's already turning, back into her warm bedroom, back into a world where only sleep matters.

(Brittany wonders if she ever dreams about her.)

'Ask your father,' she mutters. It sounds spiteful, as though she's tossing the words over her shoulder at Brittany and doesn't care if they hit her. 'It's about time he did some more around here.'

The door shuts.

Her mother's final answer.

(She just wanted her mom to make it _better_ for once. Why does she always have to make it worse?)

Sighing, she wanders to the other end of the hallway, the sound of her bare feet swallowed by the carpet. A single tear falls and is swallowed as well. Her dad's door is shut and she decides to knock. Doesn't want to make him angry too.

She raps the door with her knuckles. It smarts a bit.

No answer.

She tries again. Still no answer.

"Daddy?" she whispers. "Are you awake? I need to ask you something."

She presses her ear against the door. The silence emanating from the wood is deafening.

She leans against it and it swings inwards, her only warning a 'click' from the catch that obviously wasn't in properly.

She stumbles but doesn't fall.

(Gymnastics give her the balance she didn't have five years ago.)

So dark.

'Daddy?'

So quiet.

She walks over to the bed. It's made, not a dent in the white fabric. His slippers lie at perfect right angles to the closet. His desk is empty, his laptop probably sitting in his briefcase while he's busy being important.

So empty.

It's her _birthday_.

Why is she the only one that remembers?

* * *

><p>When Santana and Mrs. Lopez arrive, Brittany's sat in the kitchen, staring at the cereal cupboard.<p>

Still in her pajamas and untied dressing gown.

The doorbell rings and the bottom drops out of her stomach.

How is she going to explain to them that she can't take them ice-skating or do any of the things she promised? Ideas take a long time to form in her head; she knows this, so she's been planning this since the end of October. Santana even helped her to decide who to invite.

She was so _excited_.

And it all went _wrong._

(It's all her fault.)

The air coming through the bottom of the door is so cold on her bare feet. She curls up her toes in the welcome mat and opens the door.

Santana's standing there with a huge smile on her face and a colorfully wrapped present in her gloved hands. The smile fades when she sees Brittany.

Mrs. Lopez takes one look at her and says "Oh, _honey,_" and engulfs her in a huge hug. "Let's get you inside, shall we?"

Brittany starts crying and feels _awful_ because she's ruining her own special day.

She's carried back to the kitchen by Mrs. Lopez and set down in one of the dining room chairs with the red and gold cushions on.

Tries to stop crying.

She's _eleven_. She's supposed to start growing up now.

"Where are your parents, sweetie?"

Brittany just shakes her head. How to explain that her mom can barely look at her right now and her dad is too important to be home on a Saturday morning?

Mrs. Lopez sighs and murmurs something to Santana, who nods and takes Brittany's hand.

"Come on, Brit. You need to get dressed if we're going to go ice-skating."

Ice-skating? Doesn't she understand that that isn't going to happen?

She opens her mouth to tell her but she just tugs at Brittany's hand, impatient.

"Just- Just get dressed. Trust me."

(Well.)

(If Brittany can't trust Santana, then who can she trust?)

She lets Santana lead the way to her room, the tiniest spark of hope forming in her chest.

* * *

><p>When they come back down, Brittany wrapped up in a blue jumper and a rainbow scarf, Mrs. Lopez is making pancakes.<p>

While on the phone.

Brittany's impressed.

She winks at her when they enter the kitchen, still talking. Santana grabs her present from the counter and thrusts it at Brittany, eyes gleaming.

'Open it.'

Brittany takes it. Weighs it in her hands, tries to figure out what's inside. She doesn't really care (a present is a present) but she wants to draw out the excitement for as long as possible. It's hard and bumpy, as though there's more than one thing in the blue and silver wrapping paper.

'What is it?' she asks, passing it from hand to hand.

Santana snorts.

'It's not going to explode, Brit. Just open it already!'

'Shouldn't we wait for the others?'

The digital clock on the oven says 10:35. They should be here soon.

'No. Open it now, so that it's just us two.'

(Santana hadn't wanted her to invite anyone else. Brittany told her that you need more than two people to make a party, like in the movies – movies never lie.)

(It took some convincing.)

Brittany opens it carefully. Tries really hard not to rip the pretty paper. Something silver and shiny falls out onto the floor and Santana picks it up, hides it behind her back. Brittany raises her eyebrows questioningly.

'Saving it till last,' Santana mutters, not meeting her eyes.

She removes her present slowly, almost reverently. Santana fidgets beside her. She can tell without looking that she's got her lips pressed together, trying to hold back the sharp words that threaten to poke her.

(They're both slowly learning that Brittany is fragile. Cracked glass.)

(Santana is a hammer.)

It's beautiful.

The first present is a photo frame, heavy and silver with embossed flowers. The photo is of them the summer before third grade. They're at one of the events Mrs. Lopez was catering for, a giant outdoor picnic to help raise funds for some charity. It's a close-up of their faces as they're standing in the middle of the field. Brittany's grinning, laughing at something someone said. Her blonde hair is a mess, blowing about in the breeze. Santana stares up at the camera, her face almost serious, but Brittany can just make out the slight curl of her mouth, a tightening at the corner of her right eye. She can just make out Santana's arm over her shoulders.

It's _them_.

Them in a photograph.

She looks up at Santana, face completely open. Santana looks back at her and a small smile plays on her lips.

'I thought you'd like it,' she says confidently. Brittany knows she's lying but hugs her anyway.

(What is it with her and hugs?)

When they part, Santana holds out the silver thing that fell to the floor. She watches Brittany intently as she takes it. Her eyes make dents in Brittany's skull and she looks down, taking the proffered gift.

'Pancakes ready in two minutes, girls. You feeling ok, Brittany?' Mrs. Lopez presses 'end call' on her mobile and looks over her shoulder at the pair.

She nods, staring at the necklace that now sits in the palm of her hand. Silver seems to be a theme with Santana – the cross on her necklace matches the studs in her ears and now she's giving Brittany the most beautiful necklace she's ever seen. Then she frowns.

'Is it broken?' she asks, dangling it in front of Santana's eyes. They follow it for a while as it swings back and forth and she shakes her head, unblinking.

'No, silly girl. It's half a heart.' She breaks out of her trance and jabs at the jagged edge. 'This is where the other half would fit.'

'And the other half is…'

'In my jewelry box at home. I wouldn't take it ice-skating, would I? It might get broken.'

The doorbell rings and Brittany feels the biggest smile bloom on her face.

'Just in time. Santana, would you get that? Brittany needs to stay and tell me where everything is so you can actually eat the pancakes and not just stare at them.'

'Already doing it, mom.'

Brittany feels the cold air rush in as the front door is wrenched open, hears a booming voice laughingly apologize about the traffic, smells the wonderful, syrupy smell of freshly cooked pancakes.

Wonders what about this wasn't enough for her mother.

* * *

><p><em>Apologies for the horribly late update - I wrote this a long time ago but never got round to posting it. <em>

_Also, kudos to whoever gets the lyrics at the beginning. _


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